Susan Johnson (40 page)

Alex shifted uncomfortably in her chair, tapped her fingers
on the gilded chair arm, inhaled, exhaled, and was silent for several moments more. “I’m not sure about the million years,” she finally said.

“You’re boring the hell out of me,” Eddie grumbled, reaching for the brandy bottle at his elbow.

Sam looked up from his putt. “Go to the Marlborough Club yourself.”

“I might.” Refilling his glass, Eddie lifted it in salute. “As soon as I finish this bottle.”

“After you finish that bottle, you’ll be passed out on my couch,” Sam murmured, watching the ball roll into the cup on the putting green he’d had installed in his conservatory.

“You don’t miss a night out as a rule,” Eddie remonstrated. “Did the merry widow’s refusal incapacitate you?”

“Au contraire,” Sam murmured, positioning another ball with his golf club. “I’m feeling first-rate. And I expect she’s in high mettle as well.”

“She turned you down, Sam.”

“But she didn’t want to.” He softly swung his club, striking the ball with exquisite restraint.

“And you can tell.”

The viscount half smiled. “I could feel it.”

“So sure …”

“Yes.”

“And you’re saving yourself for her now?”

“Jesus, Eddie, if you want to go, go. I don’t feel like fucking anyone right now and I drank enough last night to last me a week.”

“Since when haven’t you felt like fucking someone?” his friend asked, his gaze measured.

“What the hell are you insinuating?”

“That you fancy the voluptuous Miss Ionides with more than your usual casual disregard.”

“After meeting her for ten minutes?” Sam snorted. “You’re drunk.”

“And you’re putting golf balls at eight o’clock when you’re never even home at eight.”

Sam tossed his club aside. “Let’s go.”

“Are you going out like that?”

The viscount offered his friend a narrowed glance. “None of the girls at Hattie’s will care.”

“True,” Eddie muttered, heaving himself up from the leather-covered couch. “But don’t do that to me again. It scares the hell out of me.”

Sam was shrugging into his jacket. “Do what?”

“Change the pattern of our dissolute lives. If you can be touched by Cupid’s arrow, then no man’s safe. And that’s bloody frightening.”

“Rest assured that after Penelope, I’m forever immune to Cupid’s arrow,” Sam drawled. “Marriage don’t suit me. As for love, I haven’t a clue.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Eddie murmured, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.

But much later, as the first light of day fringed the horizon, Lord Ranelagh walked away from Hattie Martin’s luxurious brothel pervaded by a deep sense of dissatisfaction. What had previously passed for pleasure seemed wearisome now; a jaded sense of sameness enervated his soul, and sullen and moody, he found no pleasure even in the glorious sunrise.

Walking home through the quiet city streets, he was plagued by thoughts of the bewitching Miss Ionides, wondering where she’d slept or, like him, not slept. The rankling
thought further lowered his spirits. By the time he reached his town house, he’d run through a mental list of any number of men who might be her lovers, the image of her voluptuous body in the arms of another man inexplicably disagreeable.

It shouldn’t be. He should be immune to the nature of her liaisons. He had met the damned woman only a day ago and there was no earthly reason why he should care who the hell she slept with.

He snapped at the hall porter when he entered his house, immediately apologized, and after making some banal excuse, pressed ten guineas into the servant’s hand. When he walked into his bedroom a few moments later, he waved a restraining hand at his valet, who came awake with a start and jumped to his feet. “Go back to sleep, Rory. I can undress myself. In fact, take the day off. I won’t be needing you.”

His young manservant immediately evinced concern. The viscount was accustomed to being waited on, his family’s fortune having insulated him from the mundane details of living.

Recognizing his valet’s hesitation, Sam said, “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Why not take Molly for a walk in the park,” the viscount suggested, knowing Rory’s affection for the downstairs maid. “She may have the day off as well.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“Go, now.” Sam waved him off. “All I want to do is sleep.”

In a more perfect world, he might have slept, considering he’d been up for twenty-four hours; but Miss Ionides was putting an end to the perfection of his world
and
to his peace of mind. He tossed and turned for more than an hour before throwing aside the blanket and stalking over to a small table holding
two decanters of liquor. Pouring himself a considerable amount of cognac, he dropped into an upholstered chair, and sliding into a sprawl, contemplated the injustice of Miss Ionides’s being so damned desirable.

Half a bottle of cognac later, he decided he’d simply have to have her and put an end to his lust and her damnable allure. He further decided his powerful craving was just the result of his not having what he wanted—her. And once he’d made love to the delectable Miss Ionides, that craving would be assuaged. Familiarity breeding contempt, as they say, had been the common pattern of his sexual amusements. In his experience, one woman was very much like another once the game was over.

But this particular game of seduction was just beginning, and glancing out the window, he took note of the position of the sun in the sky. The races would be starting soon at Ascot, the entire week scheduled with prestigious races, the Season bringing all of society to the track.

Including Miss Ionides, if he didn’t miss his guess.

Rising from his chair, he walked to the bellpull and rang for a servant. He needed a bath.